


I Can Dream the Rest Away

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: spn_j2_xmas, First Time, M/M, Raised Apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's death Dean finds a photo of their family – Mary, John, his four year old self, and a baby Dean never knew existed. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 22/12/2010]</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Dream the Rest Away

Just outside of Billings, Montana, in an old, abandoned warehouse they catch Yellow Eyes.

One of the first things John taught Dean was to always have a plan – to know what you're fighting and to know how to kill it. Later, life taught Dean that nothing ever goes the way you think, that even the best laid plans get screwed up. One of the most important traits in a hunter is the ability to improvise, to expect anything to happen at any given moment.

Going up against the Yellow Eyed demon is no different. Their plan utterly _fails_.

Before Dean can so much as blink, he's flat on his back. His head is throbbing and he's seeing spots. He thinks he must have blacked out for a moment, because John is no longer at the other side of the room. Instead he's pressed up against a wall, the Yellow Eyed demon standing in front of him with a grin.

"You really thought you could kill me that easily, John?" he says, his voice taunting, and Dean's stomach twists.

"I still think I can," John spits back, and his voice sounds forced. Dean can tell he's in pain, can tell he's putting up a front, and he feels a surge of fear. He's seen John get hurt countless times, but it never stops scaring him. They always got out of any situation they got themselves in, but Dean knows a lot of times it was pure luck more than anything else, and some day they won't be that fortunate. There's a reason hunters don't grow old.

"How? With this?" Yellow Eyes points to the ground, and with a movement of his hand flings the colt further away from them, his laugh echoing through the empty room. "Now, John, let's make a deal. I won't make your death too painful. Nor Dean's. And all you gotta do is tell me where he is."

Dean can see John smile, more sinister than he's used to. Something's not right, he thinks, something's not adding up. 

"I'll never tell you," John says. "You can do whatever you want to me, you'll never find him."

 _Who_ , Dean wants to asks, but he can't make a sound. He feels dizzy, every part of his body hurting, and he can't draw attention to himself. He needs Yellow Eyes to be distracted so he can kill him; it's their one chance.

Yellow Eyes makes an angry noise, and John is lifted higher into the air, his head banging against the wall behind him with a dull thud. Dean wants to get up, wants to help his dad, but he can't. Not yet. He slides his hand into his jacket as quietly as he can, fingers closing around a barrel.

"I'll find him. You and Dean, you won't be able to stop me."

"We'll kill you first," John hisses.

Yellow Eyes laughs, and Dean can't really tell what he's doing but John makes another pained sound then. Dean can see blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

"I thought we already established that you can't kill me. You don't have your trusty weapon, remember?"

"No," Dean croaks, pulling the colt out. "But I do."

Yellow Eyes whirls around, and the grin on his face morphs into shock. Before he can do anything, say anything, Dean pulls the trigger.

+

John is lying on the floor, crumpled, pale.

Dean ignores the aching pains in his body and rushes to his side as fast as his aching body allows him, kneeling down at John's side.

"Dad," he says.

"You did good," John says, with a small smile on his face. This close, Dean can tell he's trembling.

"We both did," Dean agrees, and tries to smile back, but he can't. 

"I'm proud of you, Dean. Don't ever forget that."

"Don't talk like you're dying," Dean chokes out, feels his throat closing up. "You're not. Okay? Just hold on. I'll get you out of here. I'll get you to a hospital and they can fix you. It's gonna be fine."

John looks up at him with regret, his eyes wet and Dean pretends it's not tears. His dad doesn't cry. He's strong and brave, and he's going to make it out of here.

"Dad, come on," he whispers. "Please. Don't do this to me. We killed the demon. You need to be okay, so we can celebrate kicking his ass."

John doesn't react.

Dean watches his breath even out, stop, as his body goes lifeless.

+

Dean burns John's corpse. It's the hunter's burial his dad would have wanted.

He watches the body go up in flames, watches the only family he still had, ever really had, burn and curses the world. The day they killed Yellow Eyes was supposed to be their biggest victory, the one thing they'd worked for since the day John packed up the Impala and took them on the road. Revenge was supposed to be sweet, but all Dean feels is an aching emptiness.

He's alone now.

+

Dean stays in Lockwood, Montana, for two weeks.

The first few days he doesn't leave his motel room for anything other than to get booze. He sits on his bed, the TV on even if Dean isn't watching, and drinks. He stays in a constant state of inebriation. It numbs the pain, but it doesn't make Dean forget.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his dad's lifeless body lying on the cold ground of the old warehouse. He can smell the sulfur in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood.

On the third day, Bobby calls. Dean let's it go to voice mail.

"Dean. Listen, call me, will you? Hunters are talking, and...and I just wanna know you're doing all right."

"I'm not," Dean whispers, and lets his cell fall from his hands.

He doesn't call Bobby back, but that night he takes the first shower in days and shaves. He dresses in clothes that are at least somewhat clean and goes out to find a bar.

He's on his second beer when a brunette girl comes up to him. She's playing with her hair, looking at him from under her lashes and playing coy.

Dean buys her a drink, makes small talk, and then asks her if she wants to get of there with him.

They don't make it further than the backseat of the Impala. Dean spreads her out, hiking up her skirt and pushing her panties out of her way. She's pretty, and if things were different Dean would take his time. He'd take her back to the motel, lick and kiss every inch of her smooth, pale skin, listen to her breathy moans before sliding in. Instead he fucks her hard and fast and for a few stray moments, there's nothing but pleasure.

The next night, it's a blond. Skin tight jeans and washed out t-shirt, pretty in a plain way. Dean takes her back to her place and fucks her twice that night. She doesn't seem to care that he's being a little rough, just writhes underneath him and calls out his name. Dean doesn't even know hers.

He collects his clothes and sneaks out in the middle of the night, feeling just as empty as he did before the moment the high from the orgasm fades.

+

The third night the pickings are slim. There's a group of bikers playing pool and Dean lets himself get roped into a game. He comes out with as much money as he had going in, and he doesn't care. Wouldn't have cared if he'd lost the last few dollars he has either.

He sits back down at the bar, looking around slowly. There's a group of girls at a table and none of them really catches his attention, but one of them keeps glancing over at Dean and he thinks it'll do. He's about to go over to introduce himself when Dean sees someone watching him from the corner of his eyes. He turns his head and catches the eyes of a tall, blond guy.

Dean only hesitates for a split second. He's hooked up with guys when John and he split up for jobs, but he doesn't do it often. There's always the chance he might get caught, and girls have always been the easier choice. But John is gone now, and Dean doesn't have to be careful anymore.

He offers a smile, and the guy doesn't waste any time, coming over.

"Hey," he says, "I'm Scott."

"Dean."

"Dean. Can I buy you a drink?" Scott asks and Dean lifts his beer to his lips, emptying it in one go.

"Wanna get out of here?" he asks instead when he sets his glass back down.

Scott looks surprised for a moment, then grins and nods.

Dean takes him to the back alley, lets Scott press him into the hard brick wall, giving up control. Scott kisses him, slipping his hand to Dean's jeans, fingers snapping open the buttons. Dean arches into the touch, moaning as their bodies grind together. He doesn't protest when Scott pulls his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, turning him around. Dean braces himself against the wall, biting back any sounds that are threatening to escape as Scott presses fingers into him, opening him up before he pushes into Dean. It burns, and Dean feels stretched and full. He leans his forehead against the wall, feeling the bricks scratch against his skin, and pushes back into Scott's thrusts.

Scott fucks into him hard, deep, growling words into Dean's ears that he can't make out.

Dean's come splatters against the wall, and he lets himself catch his breath for a moment before turning around. He avoids Scott's eyes as he pulls his jeans back up.

That night, Dean falls asleep without seeing John die behind his closed eyes for the first time.

+

"You'll never find him," John says. Yellow Eyes is looming over him, but John's looking straight at Dean, his eyes dark.

"Find who?" Dean asks. "Who are you talking about?"

The next moment he's leaning over his dad's body, John's lifeless eyes staring back up at him.

"You'll never find him, Dean," his voice says, even as his lips don't move.

Dean startles awake.

Early morning light is filtering into the room, and Dean's harsh breathing is loud in the otherwise silent room. The sheets are tangled around his body, and sweat is making Dean's t-shirt stick to his back.

"Fuck," he whispers, struggling out of the bed. He feels unsteady, dizzy, and he walks into the bathroom slowly.

He splashes cold water into his face, and when he straightens back up, the face staring back at him is barely recognizable as his own. There are dark circle under his eyes, his cheeks hollow and his skin pale.

"You're a fucking mess," he says to himself, voice rough.

He can't go on like that. He has nothing left to live for, but he's not going out like that, drinking himself to death in a dingy motel room.

Dean runs a hand over his face and strips of his t-shirt and boxers. He turns on the shower, setting the temperature to almost too hot before stepping under the spray.

Washing the cooled off sweat off his body, he tries to wash the memories of his dream away along with it.

+

After the shower, Dean opens the windows to air out the room. He gathers take out take out boxes and empty bottles and throws it all out.

Once the room is at least halfway decent, he takes a deep breath and goes outside. His dad's truck is still parked next to the Impala.

Dean grits his jaw as he unlocks the truck. He forces himself not to think, not to feel, as he cleans out the car, starting with the trunk. Everything that is of a use to him is stored away in the Impala, the rest Dean throws away.

By late afternoon, he's sold the truck to the only car dealer in town.

The only thing that's still left is John's duffel bag.

Dean looks down at it for a moment, hesitating, before unzipping it. He pulls out item after item, slowly making two piles - one with things to throw away and one with things he can keep. Jeans and shirts that fit him, John's favorite knife and gun, his dad's journal all go onto the keep pile. John hadn't carried much around with him, so the duffel is empty before Dean knows it.

All that's left is a pile of pieces of paper and clippings from newspapers he found in one of the inside compartments of the bag, and Dean quickly sorts through them. There's a small write up one about a haunted house that they took care of a few months ago, a few about what sounds like possible cases, but they're all pretty old. Dean throws most of them out. There's one single newspaper article about the fire, about Mary, and Dean feels a pang of melancholy as he reads it. He folds the article carefully, tucks it away into his own duffel.

Looking back at the small pile of faded paper he hasn't looked at yet, Dean sees the sharp, glossy edges of a photo. He pulls it out from beneath everything else.

It's from before the fire – Dean on his dad's arm, his dad's free arm thrown around Mary's shoulder, and Mary's holding a baby. The baby is small, chubby, one tiny fist curled in Mary's hair.

Dean frowns and flips the photos around.

_John, Dean, Mary & baby Sam, September 1983_

There's no last name, no indication as to who the baby is. As if it's part of the family.

Dean swallows thickly and sits down on the empty bed. The photo flutters from his hands.

It's nothing, he tells himself, staring down at the photo on the floor. It's just a baby, maybe a neighbor's kid or a cousin Dean never knew about. Except – it's the only photo John kept, one he's apparently been carrying around with himself for the past 23 years. And deep down, Dean knows it has to mean something, that the baby in Mary's arm isn't some random child.

Dean gets back up, rooting through the pile of things he planned on keeping until he finds John's journal. If there's an answer, it's in there.

He flips it open, but the first few pages of the journal have been ripped out.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, eyes skimming over the first page. It's dated almost six months after the fire.

 _'I did what I had to do to keep my family safe,'_ the first sentence says. Dean runs a hand over his face.

"What the hell did you do, dad?" he whispers, staring down at the page before looking back at the photo lying at his feet, feeling sick.

That evening, he reads the journal front to cover. There isn't a Sam mentioned once.

Dean looks through John's things once more, carefully sorting through everything, but finds nothing. He has nothing but the photo of his family and a baby, a first name to go on, and something inside him telling him that he needs to know who the baby is.

So Dean goes back to where it all started.

+

Dean hasn't been in Lawrence since Mary's death. He doesn't really remember anything about the town. He thinks he has vague recollections of what their house looked like, about their kitchen and the scent of Mary's cookies. Most of all, he remembers the smell of fire, remembers the absolute terror he felt.

He goes straight to the cemetery, his heart beating fast as he turns off the ignition and gets out of the car.

Mary's grave is well-kept, but absent of any flowers or wreaths. There's no Sam Winchester buried next to her. Dean feels his eyes start to burn with tears, and he burrows his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he kneels down.

"Hey mom," he whispers and feels a pang of guilt for not having brought anything, for not having been here since the funeral. "Sorry it took me so long to come here...dad and I have been busy. You know, hunting."

He looks at the gray, cold stone, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I gotta know who he is, mom," he says. "I gotta find out whatever it is dad kept from me."

Curling his hands into fists, he feels the edges of the photo he's slipped into the pocket dig into his fingers. With one last look at his mother's name in the gray stone, he gets back up and walks through row after row slowly, eyes skimming the tombstones. None of the birth dates of the Sams or Samuels he finds fit with when Dean roughly figures Sam must have been born.

He hasn't found out anything, isn't any smarter than he was this morning, but Dean feels relief as he gets back into the Impala.

For a split moment he thinks about looking into things here in Lawrence, looking for people who knew his parents, dropping by hospitals, the registration office. He's not sure what makes him turn his car around and go to Sioux Falls instead, but he does.

+

"Dean," Bobby says as he pulls the door open, his eyes wide. He looks unsure what to do for a moment, looks just like Dean feels, and then he pulls Dean into a hug.

"You forgot how to listen to your voice mail?" he asks when he steps back.

"Sorry," Dean mumbles.

Bobby waves him off. "Just don't do it again, understood?"

Dean nods.

Bobby steps aside. "Come in," he says, voice gruff. "You want a beer? I could throw together something to eat."

Dean gives Bobby a tight smile. "I'm good. I need some information, actually."

"You working a case?" Bobby asks, and Dean knows what he really wants to know is if Dean is hunting again, back on his feet after having vanished for days after John's death. He wonders who told Bobby about it, but he knows in their world, news travel fast, especially bad ones.

Dean takes a deep breath.

"Not exactly," he starts, and pulls out the photo. He hands it to Bobby. "I need to know who Sam is."

Bobby looks at the photo and then at Dean with a clear look of surprise on his face.

"I'll get us drinks," he finally says, waving Dean towards the living room.

+

Bobby throws back his drink before pouring himself another.

Dean looks down at the tumbler with the ambler liquid in his hand. "So, Sam," he starts. "What d'you know about him?"

"Not much," Bobby admits. "John didn't tell me a lot. I don't think he would have told me anything at all if he didn't think I'd be able to help him find the demon. He thought it was best if as few people knew about Sam as possible."

"Why? Who was he, Bobby, and why the hell did dad think he needed to keep him a secret?"

"Your brother. Sam was your brother."

Dean sucks in a breath. It's been on his mind since the moment he saw the photo, the possibility that Sam was family, but he still feels surprised, speechless. He knocks back his drink, feeling the liquor burn down his throat.

"Was?" he finally asks. "Did he die? With mom?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Your dad gave him away."

Dean bites his lower lip, his head reeling with the new information. With the sudden hope that he might have a brother, somewhere out there. _Alive_.

He could have had a brother all his life.

"Why?" he asks. 

"I'm not really sure. All I know is that the fire started in Sam's nursery, and that whatever happened, whatever the demon wanted, John thought it had something to do with Sam," Bobby says. "He thought Sam might be in danger."

"So he gave him away."

"Yeah. He thought it might keep Sam safe if he wasn't with you guys. If nobody knew where he was."

 _You'll never find him_. John's words echo in Dean's head. It had been _Sam_ Yellow Eyes had been looking for, asking for that night, he realizes.

"So he's alive then," Dean finally dares to say, looking at Bobby for a reaction.

"As far as I know."

"Where is he?"

"Dean," Bobby starts.

"No, listen to me, Bobby. Whatever the demon wanted, I killed that bastard. He's dead. And Sam is my brother," Dean says, running a hand over his face. "I have a right to know where he is...to at least make sure he's okay."

"I don't know where he is," Bobby says. "I didn't meet you guys until after Sam was gone. All I know is that Pastor Jim helped your dad find a place for him."

They sit in silence for a moment, Dean chewing on his lower lip, looking down into his empty glass, a small pool of whiskey at the bottom. "How old was I when he gave Sam away?"

Bobby shrugs. "Wasn't too long after the fire. Five maybe."

Dean runs a hand over his face, feels the stubble on his chin against his palm. "I don't remember him."

"You were a kid, Dean, and everything that happened...can't blame you for not remembering much."

Dean grabs the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table between stacks of books, pouring himself another drink. "I guess," he agrees, but he still feels like he should have.

He feels like he shouldn't have forgotten his own brother.

+

Pastor Jim gives him a long, hard stare. "I promised your dad never to tell anyone," he says slowly.

"We killed the demon and dad is gone," Dean replies. "Whatever danger Sam was in, I'd say he's safe now. I just wanna meet him."

Pastor Jim sighs, then nods. "Melissa Lanville. I have her address somewhere," he says, getting up.

He returns with a slip of paper with a name and an address.

"Do you know her well?" Dean asks, looking down at the scribbled words. 

"Not well. She used to live here in Minnesota, but she moved when she took Sam in. And I didn't see her again after that," Pastor Jim says. "John and I thought it would be best if we severed all contact with her."

"Why her?"

"She knew some things. Enough to know why John wanted to give Sam away and enough to keep him safe."

"Was she a hunter?"

"She was involved in some witchcraft," Pastor Jim explains.

"A witch?" Dean asks with a snort.

"It's not what you think, Dean. Your dad wouldn't have given Sam to her if he didn't think she'd be absolutely safe. She just knew some stuff, not too different from the things you and your dad know."

Dean nods, pushing the uneasy feeling aside, trusting that Pastor Jim and his dad knew what they were doing.

"So you haven't heard from her since?" he asks. "You don't know how Sam is doing?"

Pastor Jim shakes his head, giving Dean a sad smile. "I'm sorry, that's all I know."

Dean nods, pocketing the slip of paper. "Thanks anyway," he says.

+

Greenwich, Ohio, is a town with a population of less than two thousand people. Dean tries to imagine what it was like for Sam to grow up here, but he can't even picture Sam. Maybe someone who looked like John when he was younger and Dean tries to imagine someone like dad or he himself living in a place like Greenwich, but he can't. All Dean has ever known is the road, motel room after motel room, monster after monster.

He finds the right address easily, and parks the Impala at the curb.

The house is small, with a slightly unkempt looking front lawn. Dean looks at it for moment before walking up it. When he rings the bell, nobody answers. Dean stands on the porch, and tries to peer in through the windows, but inside it's dark.

Someone clears their throat and Dean whirls around.

There's a woman standing on the front lawn next door, hedge clippers in her hand.

"Can I help you?" she asks, looking at him suspiciously.

Dean steps down from the porch. "I'm looking for Sam and Melissa Lanville."

The woman gives him a hard look. "And who are you?"

"Dean. Sam and Melissa are old friends of the family," he lies easily. It's not that far from the truth anyway.

"Is that so?" the woman asks, crossing her arms. "Melissa died over four years ago."

"Oh--and Sam?"

"Sam's fine," she says curtly, and Dean can tell she's not willing to share much more.

He clears his throat. "My dad knew the two of them," he says. "He passed away a week ago."

Her face softens when Dean says those words, and he feels a stab of guilt for using his dad's death to get information. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says.

Dean nods. "Thanks. I just...thought I should let Melissa and Sam know myself. They lost contact, but I know they used to be very close."

She nods, finally putting the clippers down. "Sam doesn't live here anymore. He only comes home during semester breaks and I look after house for him in the meantime."

College. Sam's the right age for it, and Dean didn't even consider that he might be studying something. The idea is so foreign to him – Sam's whole _life_ seems completely foreign, so different from everything Dean's known. "Can you tell me which college? I'll find him from there."

"Stanford. He's a smart one, our Sam," she says, sounding proud. "I have his address and number. I'll give it to you."

"That would be great," Dean says. He waits outside for her, looking at the house that Sam lived in, that's Sam's now.

He leaves Greenwich with yet another address.

+

It takes Dean four days to get to Palo Alto. When he gets there, he feels absolutely drained, day after day with very little else wearing on him. He gets some food, finds a motel room, and crashes.

The next morning he gets up early. He stops at a drive in, gets coffee and donuts and parks across the street from Sam's place. It's early enough that the street is still completely quiet and most windows still have the blinds lowered. Dean gets out of the car and walks over to the building.

He finds _S. Lanville/M. Warren_ on the nameplates. Satisfied that he has the right place, he gets back in his car and waits.

It doesn't take too much longer before the first people start trickling out of the building. A middle-aged woman with a child, two girls in their early twenties, then a blond guy. Dean wonders if maybe that's Sam – he looks about the right age, and Dean tries to get a closer look, tries to see something about him that reminds him of dad, of himself maybe, but the guy is gone before Dean can really look too closely. There's another guy with dark hair who looks a little too old to be Sam, an Asian guy who Dean rules out for obvious reasons, a redhead girl with glasses and a stack of books that almost makes her topple over with each step, a tall guy with unruly hair and damn, Dean would hit that. His eyes follow the guy as he hurries down the street, and yeah, Dean's eyes might be trained on the guy's ass as he walks, until he's out of sight. It's when he turns his attention back to the building that Dean remembers just why he's there and fuck, he hopes that was not Sam.

He waits another couple of hours, eating his last donut as he watches a few more people leave the building. A couple in their thirties, a tall blond with killer legs, a short, mousy guy with a beard.

Around eleven, Dean gets out of the car and walks up to the building again. He rings the doorbell twice, but neither Sam nor his roommate open the door.

It doesn't take long for Dean to pick the locks. He finds Sam's name on an apartment on the third floor. He knocks again just to be sure, listens carefully but there's no sound coming from inside the apartment. He looks up and down the corridor, makes sure he is alone, before he picks that lock, too.

He checks the rooms first, makes sure he's really alone. The apartment is pretty nondescript. A small kitchen, a living-room with an old couch and TV, books scattered everywhere. In one of the bedrooms he finds letters and papers with Sam's name on them. The room is small, just a bed, a desk, a book shelf and a closet. Judging by the books Dean finds, Sam's a law student.

"Figures," Dean says with a grimace and lets the book fall back onto the desk. He looks around again and spies a few framed photos. The tall, gorgeous guy Dean saw come out of the building a few hours earlier is in all of them. Dean grimaces. Of fucking course. He tells himself it doesn't count, that he didn't actually perv on his brother because he didn't know tall, dark, and handsome was Sam.

In a couple of photos Sam is younger, arm thrown over the shoulder of a woman he supposes is Melissa. They look happy, both smiling widely. Like a family. Dean feels a mixture of relief, glad that his brother apparently had a happy childhood, and regret. Regret that Sam didn't grow up with them, and Dean hadn't even known.

There seems to be nothing else of interest in the room, nothing that tells Dean anything, and he isn't even sure what he was looking for. Sam seems like a normal college student, living in a too small room with too many books and a bunch of assorted knick knacks.

As Dean leaves, boots scuffing over the floor, he notices the very thin line of salt at the door leading to Sam's room. He grins, looks more closely and finds a couple of symbols edged into the wooden door frame, nothing but scratches to people who don't know better.

There are a few more symbols on the front door of the apartment.

"Good boy," Dean praises, feeling a little lighter.

He sneaks back outside, making sure the hallway is empty as he slips out and decides to come back tonight to talk to Sam.

He gets lunch and finds a local library, researching the area. There's nothing striking about Palo Alto, no unexplainable deaths that catch Dean's attention, no weird sightings, nothing that hints at anything supernatural – now or in the past few years.

Dean walks around a little more, before he returns to Sam's apartment.

He sits in the Impala for a moment, contemplating what to say, how to tell Sam who he is.

"Just wing it," he says to himself, swinging himself out of the car.

He rings the doorbell and waits. There's nothing at first, and Dean is about to ring the bell again when the intercom crackles.

"Yes?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Sam Lanville," he says.

"You found him."

Dean licks his lips, nodding even if he knows Sam can't see him. "Good. Can you let me up? I need to talk to you."

There's a moment of silence, then the door buzzes. Dean jogs up the stairs to the third floor. Sam is leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed, and when Dean walks up the corridor, he straightens. He looks even taller than this morning, and despite his all American looks, there's something threatening about him.

"You..." Sam says. "Who the hell are you?"

He sounds harsh, upset and Dean falters for a moment.

"Hi. Sam. I'm Dean," he says hesitantly. "Could you maybe let me in, man? I need to talk to you and I think it's something you might not want your neighbors to overhear."

"Right, I'll just let a stranger into the apartment," Sam snorts. He looks like he's ready to charge, to fight Dean, and Dean feels himself tense up. This definitely isn't going the way he imagined it.

"Look. This is about your family," Dean explains. "I'm Dean Winchester. Your brother."

Sam tenses, drawing up to his full height and Jesus, he definitely has a few inches on Dean. "Christo," he hisses.

Dean's eyes widen automatically and he raises his hands. "Woah, okay, I'm not a _demon_."

Sam narrows his eyes. "You're not my brother either."

Dean frowns, wetting his lips. "I am," he says.

Sam snorts. "My family died when I was a baby. Whoever or whatever you are, you gotta come up with a better story to fool me."

It's going to be tougher than Dean thought, he thinks. He tries to look as honest, as nonthreatening as he can. "Look, I get it. Guy comes here and says he's your family, I wouldn't believe him either. I'm not lying though," he insists. "If you think I'm not-- _human_ , we can go through the tests, man. Silver, holy water. Whatever. You're not gonna find anything unusual about me."

"Then what are you?"

"Dean Winchester," Dean repeats. He looks at Sam for a moment, before adding, "a hunter. You can call Pastor Jim."

Sam hesitates for moment.

"He's the guy who helped find a place for you to stay," Dean offers. "With Melissa Lanville."

Sam glares. "I know who he is," he snaps, then nods curtly. "I'll call him."

"You need his number?"

Sam shakes his head, strands of unruly hair falling into his eyes. For a split moment, Dean's hand twitches and he wants to reach out, brush it away. He curls his hand into a fist.

"I have the number somewhere. Melissa gave it to me," Sam says, sounding a little calmer. He fixes Dean with a look. "You wait here."

Before Dean can react, Sam shuts the door. Dean wants to be pissed, because his brother is apparently kind of a dick, but mostly he just feels relief. Because Sam might not be a hunter, but he isn't a fool either and the fact that he doesn't trust Dean is oddly reassuring.

He leans back against the wall across from Sam's apartment, crossing his arms, and waits. It doesn't take long before Sam pulls the door back open, stepping aside to let Dean inside. The moment Dean crosses the threshold he seems to relax. Dean remembers the symbols on the door, no doubt designed to keep everything unwanted out.

He follows Sam into the living room, sitting down next to him on the couch.

Getting here, finding Sam, has been Dean's single purpose since he found the photo. It's been what kept him going, what finally made him get into his car and have something to do again. He suddenly realizes that he hasn't thought any further. That, now that he's here, he doesn't know what to do, what to say. He doesn't know what he _wants_ from Sam.

"So," Sam starts, licking his lips. He looks younger suddenly, his bravado gone. "You're not dead, huh?"

Dean shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile at Sam's attempt to lighten the mood.

"Melissa always told me you were," Sam says. "Said that's why she had to take me in."

"She was probably just doing what dad asked her to," Dean says with a shrug. "He didn't want you to be found."

"She told me you all died. In a fire," Sam explains. "And that the fire wasn't natural."

Dean sighs, looking at his hands. "Mom died in a fire," he says, and god, is this really the first time he's really talking about this? "It was a demon that caused it. But the rest of us got out, and dad, he spent his whole life hunting the demon. Hunting anything, really."

"Is he dead?"

Dean nods, looks at Sam and sees a hint of sadness there. He wonders what it's like for Sam, hearing about this, about people who are strangers to him.

"He died a few weeks ago. We were hunting the demon, the one that killed mom, and it got him," Dean says, trying to keep his voice neutral, to keep the emotions out. It's the first time he's talking about _this_ I didn't know. I would have found you earlierBrother, he keeps telling himself silently, but he doesn't _feel_ it. He looks at Sam, and he doesn't see his brother the way he should. All he sees is a guy, grown up, that makes his blood pump just a little faster.

It's wrong, but Dean can't help himself.

He watches Sam leave, hears him rummage around the kitchen before returning with two beers. He holds one out to Dean as he sits back down.

"I have a few questions," Sam says, voice low and he's looking down at his hands. "If you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Dean says with a shrug, taking a pull from his beer bottle.

"Melissa told me that...that that demon you mentioned? The one that killed mom. That it might be after me," Sam says.

Dean lets out a breath, nods. "Dad thought so," he says. Hell, Dean thinks so, too, but he figures Sam doesn't need to know. Doesn't need to know what exactly happened in the old warehouse a few weeks ago, and the things that were said.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure dad knew either."

"But then why would he think that? I was just a baby. What could a demon possibly have wanted with a baby?"

Dean shrugs, looks at Sam and sees the confusion and anxiety written all over his face. "I have no idea. Dad never told me about any of this, for all these years, but--he was a good hunter, and he was usually right. I'm sure he had his reasons for believing you weren't safe with us."

Sam nods, rubbing his fingers over his knee nervously before bringing his beer bottle to his lips. He takes a sip, and Dean watches the way his throat works as he swallows.

"But he's dead now, the demon."

"Yeah. Shot him myself."

Sam breathes out deeply, nodding. "That's good," he says. He gives Dean a smile suddenly, a real smile, all teeth and dimples and pink lips stretched wide.

Dean clears his throat nervously. "I should probably get going," he lies, finishing his beer.

"Oh," Sam says. "Right."

"Yeah," Dean says, feeling awkward as he gets up. He needs to get out of here before he starts having thoughts he shouldn't be having, but Sam does things to him. Sam wants to make him reach out and touch, and _fuck_ , Dean's been attracted to more than enough people in his life to know what those feelings mean.

"Well, are you in town for a little longer?"

Dean looks at Sam, his earnest, hopeful expression. All traces of the guy from the hallway, threatening and pissed off, are gone and Dean just can't say no to the guy who is sitting in front of him right now. Even if every inch of him is screaming at him to get in the car and drive, he can't. "A couple more days," he says.

"I don't have classes until tomorrow afternoon. We could meet up before?" Sam suggests, getting up himself.

"Sure," Dean nods. "We could meet some place for breakfast. Something cheap?"

"There's a diner down the block that I usually go to."

Dean nods. "I passed it when I got here," he says. "Ten okay for you?"

"Fine," Sam replies with a smile.

He follows Dean to the door, and Dean nods awkwardly in goodbye, while Sam raises a hand in a small wave.

Once he's out of Sam's sight, hears the door fall shut, Dean lets out a shaky breath.

So that's his brother.

Dean is pretty sure he's screwed.

+

Dean dreams of Sam that night.

He's hunting a shifter, one that looks like Sam. One that smiles at Dean, with Sam's wide smile, and beckons him over.

When Dean lifts his gun, it frowns.

"Dean. I'm your brother," it says, voice nothing like Sam's. "Your little brother. We're family."

Dean doesn't hesitate, just pulls the trigger. He watches the shifter die, watches Sam die, and when he turns around Sam is right there, a small smile on his face.

"It was lying," Sam says, and Dean wants to say something, but Sam kisses him before a word can come out.

"I'm not your bother," Sam whispers against his lips, kissing him again and again, more insistent each time.

"Of course you are," Dean finally forces out, trying to push Sam away. It's wrong. All of this is wrong.

Sam pulls back, the smile still on his face, and shakes his head. Hair falls into his face, soft and silky, and Dean brushes it away. "You are," he says again, sounding pained.

"You don't want me to be," Sam says. "It's okay. I don't wanna be either."

Sam leans back in, kisses him again, and Dean lets him.

He wakes up panting and hard, the alarm of his cell ringing shrilly.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

He slides out from under the covers, turning the insistent alarm off, and goes to take a cold shower, pushing the images of the dream as far into the back of his mind as he can.

+

Nothing about Dean's life has ever been normal. Not since the day his mother died in a fire caused by a demon. But this is going to be different, he tells himself, as he walks into the diner and spots Sam. Sam is his brother, and there's going to be nothing abnormal about that.

Dean can't force his feelings, can't make himself look at Sam and not see the gorgeous man that he apparently has not so brotherly thoughts about, but damn if he's going to let that affect him. He's going to smile at Sam, have breakfast with him and then he's going to leave. He's going to get into his car, drive off, and get some distance between them before it gets out of hand. Sam has a good life, a normal life, and Dean is going to let him live it without piling his own bullshit on top of Sam.

"Dean," Sam says when he spots him, looking happy.

"Hey," Dean offers, sliding into the booth across from Sam. "You ordered yet?"

"I was waiting for you," Sam says, handing the menu over to him. "The pancakes are really good."

Dean nods, barely glancing at the menu before waving the waitress over. "Coffee and pancakes," he orders.

"Same for me," Sam adds, smiling widely at the woman. He watches her walk away, turning back to Dean once she's out of earshot. "So, I have a few more questions."

Dean nods, waving his hand at Sam to continue.

"Okay, so this is going to sound really weird," Sam starts, looking at Dean from under strands of hair falling into his eyes.

Dean snorts. "I'm used to some pretty weird stuff."

Sam licks his lips, nods. "Was anyone in the family, uh, psychic?"

Dean raises his eyebrows, looking at Sam who looks a little uncomfortable.

"No. No one," he says. "Why?"

Sam sighs. He runs the tip his finger over the table, following a small crack there. "I have these dreams."

"What kind of dreams?"

"About all kinds of things. Supernatural things. They started when I was a teenager," Sam explains. "I thought they were just normal dreams for a while, nightmares. But then I came across an article about this guy who had drowned in a lake nearby and I'd seen him die in my dreams, being dragged under water by--something."

Dean stares at Sam, lets out a breath. "Shit," he says. "You have, what, _visions_?"

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. Melissa knew some--you know, stuff about all those supernatural things."

Dean nods, pushing the flare of unease he feels down. "Pastor Jim told me."

"Yeah. Anyway, she knew some people. A couple of psychics. She thought maybe I was one, too, and that they could help."

"They couldn't?" Dean guesses. He can already see the answer on Sam's face.

Sam shakes his head. "They said it definitely sounded like I had psychic abilities but they weren't--normal. The dreams were so vivid, so real, Dean, and I had nothing to do with those people I saw in my dreams. Most of it was stuff that happened thousands of miles away from where we lived. Nothing I was connected to," Sam say.

"Or maybe you just didn't see the connection," Dean suggests. Maybe, he thinks, that's why the demon was after Sam.

Sam nods. "Maybe," he agrees. "They were pretty bad for a while. It's been better lately, I think, but I...I just thought you might know something. "

"I'll see what I can find out. Do some research, ask a couple of friends." Dean makes a mental note to Bobby as soon as possible. If anyone can find things out about this, it's him.

"Thanks," Sam says.

Dean just nods.

Their conversation becomes a little lighter, interrupted by their food being brought. Dean digs in while Sam asks questions about Dean's life and talks about school.

Sam insists on paying for both them, and Dean only puts up a small fight. He's almost out of cash, and he can't pay with a fake credit card when Sam frequents this place.

As they leave the diner, Dean clears his throat, stopping next to the Impala. "I actually have to leave today," he says.

"Already?"

"Got a job," Dean lies.

"Okay," Sam says, sounding not particularly happy about it. "Can we exchange numbers? Keep in touch?"

Dean retrieves his phone from his jeans without hesitation. The plan to let Sam live his life was shot to hell the moment Sam mentioned his dreams. Maybe it was already shot to hell the second Dean stepped foot into the diner and Sam smiled at him, but Dean pushes the thought away the second it pops into his head.

He can't just leave Sam to deal with his visions alone and there's nobody else in Sam's life to help him. Dean isn't going to just waltz into his life and then vanish from it as quickly as he came again.

And if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. He's just going to have to suck it up and deal with his feelings, and not let it affect Sam.

+

"I need you to do some research for me," Dean says the moment Bobby picks up. He pushes off his boots with his feet, kicking them across the room before falling back onto his back. He drove the entire day and some of yesterday since he left Sam, and he feels tense and tired.

"Good to hear from you, boy. I'm fine, thanks," Bobby says, sounding exasperated.

"Hey, Bobby. How are you? Fine? Awesome," Dean says. "Now, can you research something for me?"

"What d'you need?"

"Anything you can find out about visions. What triggers them, how do they usually work, who gets them. Anything."

"You working a job?"

"Yeah. Haunted high school in Boise. But this isn't about that," Dean admits. "It's about Sam."

"You found your brother?"

"Yeah. I dropped by his place."

"And the visions?"

"He has dreams. Psychic dreams," Dean says, and then recounts him everything Sam told him.

"I'll see what I can find," Bobby promises when Dean is done.

When they hang up, Dean closes his eyes for a moment before getting up. He strips off his clothes, leaving a trail leading to the bathroom, and steps under the shower.

+

The poltergeist at the school is taken care off quickly. There's a nest of vampires outside of Colorado Springs next that's a little harder to get rid of. It's a close call, but in the end the vampires are all beheaded and Dean is left with a gash on his arm and a small concussion. He takes a couple of days of rest until his head stops hurting and his arm stops feeling sore.

Bobby calls him a few days later about a demon killing a family of four in Somerset.

"Did you find anything about the visions?" Dean asks once he's jotted down the details about the case.

Bobby sighs. "Not much. I contacted Pamela. Old friend of mine, and a damn good psychic to boot."

"What'd she say?"

"Says it sounds unusual. Most psychics need to be near the people they see in their visions or the place where it happens."

Dean groans, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, that's what Melissa's friends said."

"To be honest with you, boy, when I described what you told me to Pamela, she said she thinks there might be something else to it."

"Like what?"

"No idea. I'll keep looking, but...so far I haven't found shit."

"Thanks, anyway," Dean says. "I'll call you when I've finished this job."

"You do that. Take care, son."

Dean throws his cell onto his bed and groans. He'd feared Bobby wouldn't find out much more than Sam already knows. It makes him feel uneasy that Sam apparently has psychic abilities that are unusual. Dean knows that unusual rarely means anything good, not in his life. He wishes their dad was still alive, suspects he might have known something about this. He must have had a reason to think the demon was after Sam and Dean's gut tells him Sam's vision have something to do with that.

+

It's startling how quickly Sam carves out a niche in Dean's life, how Dean's thoughts when he's not on a job revolve around him.

They talk on the phone occasionally. First, it's just Sam calling Dean up, but after a couple of weeks Dean finds himself picking up his cell to call Sam when he stops after a long day on the road or when he returns to his motel room from a hunt. It's just mindless chats about Dean's jobs and Sam's classes, but Dean starts looking forward to them.

They've got 23 years to catch up on after all, Sam kids sometimes, and Dean knows they're never going to make up for it, but they're getting to know each other bit by bit. With each day that passes, Sam starts to matter more and more.

Sam with his carefree laugh, his boundless optimism, starts to fill part of the void John left behind. He makes Dean feel like he's not all alone anymore, like there's someone somewhere who cares, who makes him keep fighting.

"Have you ever thought about doing something else?" Sam asks one night.

"You mean other than hunting?" Dean asks with a snort, turning onto his side. He's in bed already, bedside lamp turned on and covers kicked down. It's too hot, the air thick and humid.

"Yeah. You said...you said you guys started hunting after mom was killed. You got your revenge," Sam says. "There's nothing keeping you from doing something else now, is there?"

Dean laughs humorlessly. "Sure there is. The demon might be dead, but there are others."

"It shouldn't be your responsibility to keep everyone safe."

"Has to be someone's," Dean answers with a grin. "And hey, I don't think I'd be good with this real life crap anyway. You know, same job day in and day out, sticking to one place."

"Real life?" Sam echoes, laughing softly. "You hunts monsters that most people don't even know exist. I think it's the rest of us that doesn't have the first clue what real life is like."

"Yeah, I'm pretty awesome," Dean boasts.

Sam chuckles. "I wouldn't go that far," he says, but there's fondness in his voice. It makes Dean smile, his stomach flutter with something that Dean refuses to name.

+

In a forest area near Lake Huron, seven people have vanished in the last few months. None of the bodies were found, and the local authorities are writing it off as animal attacks. Dean's pretty sure they're wrong. When there are no traces of bodies, of anything, it's usually _not_ just animals.

He packs up his things, and gets into the car.

It's late by the time he arrives in Michigan, too late to do anything, so Dean gets some dinner before finding a motel with a vacancy and goes to bed early.

He jerks awake when his cell rings.

Dean squints at Sam's name on the display, then at the time. A little after 4 a.m.

"Sam?" he asks, voice raspy with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Had a dream," Sam says, and he sounds upset, choked up.

Sam's voice now makes Dean's stomach roll with nerves, because he can tell that it's bad.

"Are you okay?"

For a moment, there's just Sam's ragged breathing, then he says, "No."

"Sam?"

"Dean, where are you?"

"Michigan. Do you need me to come?" Dean sits up, finally switching on the bedside lamp. He blinks at the glaring light.

"Are you hunting?" Sam asks, and then continues before Dean can answer. "Something in the woods, right? I saw you, Dean."

"In the vision?"

"Yeah," Sam says.

"What happened?"

"There was this...this thing. I don't know, really, I didn't get a good look at it. You were hunting it, I guess, but it surprised you. It was too fast, too strong. It got you. Dean, please, don't go after whatever you're hunting."

"Sam," Dean says. "I'll be fine. I'm careful, okay?"

"Dad wasn't fine," Sam counters. "He--"

"Don't," Dean interrupts before Sam can say more. "Don't drag him into this. You didn't know him."

There's only silence from Sam's end, his breathing evening out slowly. Dean pinches the bridge of his noise, closing his eyes.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to snap."

"'s okay," Sam replies. "But Dean, please listen to me. Don't go after this thing. It doesn't matter how careful you are, how good a hunter. I saw what happens. And every single one of my visions always come true."

Dean sighs. "There are people dying here."

"The ask some other hunter to do this. There must be others who can do that, right?"

"Sam."

"You just found me. You can't just die now."

"I'm not dying," Dean says, trying to sound as soothing as he can.

Sam makes a noise that somewhere between disbelief and hysteria. "I _saw_ you die," he argues. "Just let someone else take over. Just this once."

"Fine," Dean gives in. "I'll see if anyone is in the area who can take care of this."

Sam lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank you," he says, voice low. "Can you come see me? I just--want to see you."

Dean lies back on his bed, throwing one arm over his eyes to shield them from the light. He can't avoid Sam forever. Sam deserves a brother who's there for him, who doesn't put himself first. Sam deserves a brother who doesn't want to jump his bones, but that's something Dean can't give him. But he can make sure that whatever Dean is feeling doesn't affect Sam, because they're Dean's problems and he's not gonna make it Sam's as well. He can give Sam what he wants, be who Sam wants him to be, and ignore everything else.

"Give me a few days."

"Okay. Thanks, Dean," Sam says, and he sounds a lot calmer.

"Try to get some more sleep, Sam," Dean says before he hands up.

+

Dean has never not finished a job.

Still, the next morning he calls Bobby and tells him he has to go see Sam right away and if he can call a few hunters, find someone to take over. Then he packs his things and starts making his way to California.

Sam calls him around noon, and Dean can tell how anxious he is.

"I'm on my way already," he tells Sam, paying for the soda and skittles at the gas station he's stopped at.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, sounding relieved.

"Told you I would be, didn't I?" Dean steps back outside, breathing in the warm air, the familiar smell of gas and dust heavy in the air.

"I was just--"

"Worried I might try to get the case done anyway?" he asks. "Don't worry, I didn't."

"Okay. Good," Sam says. "Listen, I need to get to class. I just. You know."

"Wanted to check on me," Dean finishes. "I'll be there in a few days. I'll call you when I reach California."

+

Sam looks tired when he opens the door for Dean, smiling weakly. He pulls Dean into a hug, arms strong and tight around Dean, and he smells like fresh soap and some cheap cologne. Dean tenses for a moment, before hugging him back.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks when he draws back.

Sam nods. "Yeah. Come on in," he says, stepping aside to let Dean into the apartment. "Beer?"

"Yeah."

Sam gets two bottles from the fridge in the small kitchen, then waves Dean to his room. "My roommate's home, so we better go to my room."

Sam's room looks just like the first time Dean was there, only now there are even more books and papers scattered everywhere.

There's only one chair, the one at Sam's desk, and Dean takes it as Sam slumps down onto his bed. "You look like shit," he says bluntly, giving Sam an apologetic look when Sam looks up.

"Thanks, man."

"What's wrong? More dreams?"

Sam sighs, shaking his head "I kinda just thought they were over for a while. I was doing well, and then the dream about you happened."

"You thought they were over?" Dean repeats.

Sam nods. "I told you things got better a few weeks before we met."

"Right."

"Yeah. I didn't have any visions in the past couple of months, not until the one about you."

"But nothing since?"

Sam shook his head. "I called Clarice. She's one of the psychics who helped me when we first started. She said it sounds like...like something changed. Like I finally found a way to control the visions, maybe."

"And this dream?"

"It wasn't random like the ones before. I know you. You're my _brother_ ," Sam says, running a hand over his face. "Dean..."

"What?"

"I've been thinking and...you said dad died a few weeks before you found me?"

"Yes," Dean says, and he already knows where this is going. He sighs. "And your dreams stopped around the same time?"

Sam nods.

"So the visions, they might have had something to do with the demon."

"It might be possible, right? I mean, Clarice's theory sounds pretty plausible, I know, but I tried to control the visions for years and I couldn't. Why would that suddenly change? And it coincides with you killing the demon, doesn't it?"

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I've thought about that."

Sam licks his lips, finally bringing his beer to his lips and it's only then that Dean remembers his own bottle. He takes a pull, lets the cool liquid run down his throat. "But even if there's a connection, the demon's gone, so it doesn't matter."

"I guess," Sam admits.

"You feeling okay otherwise?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "Just...the dream threw me, I guess. And school's been stressful, what with the finals and everything. I didn't get a lot of sleep."

Dean distantly remembers Sam mentioned his finals in one of his calls, and he nods. "How'd they go?"

"Fine, I think." Sam twirls the bottle in his hands. "Semester's over now."

"You going home?"

Sam shrugs. "I was actually thinking, if you'd be okay with that, that I could maybe stay with you for a while."

"With me?" Dean echoes. "I don't actually have a place, Sam. I have a car, and that's it."

Sam's lips twitch into a smile. "I know."

"I hunt. That's not the right place for a _vacation_ ," Dean says, shaking his head.

"I don't want a vacation. I want to get to know my brother. And I already know some stuff about the supernatural, and you can teach me things I don't," Sam argues, giving Dean a pleading look.

"Not enough to take you hunting."

"You don't have to take me along for the big stuff, Dean."

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Listen, Sam. This life...you don't want that."

Sam laughs harshly. "It already is my life, isn't it? I've grown up with all this crap. I might not be hunter like you, but I've been having visions for years. I know exactly how dangerous this life is, because I've seen it in my dreams more than once," he says with a thick voice. "I'm not normal, Dean, so let's not pretend I am, okay?"

It's not a good idea, Dean thinks. It's probably one of the _worst_ ideas Dean has ever heard. This life isn't one he wants to drag Sam into, because no matter what Sam says, he has his own life, a good future. And with how drawn Dean is to Sam, with the feelings he shouldn't be having, he probably should keep away. Except, Dean is realizing that that's not as easy as it sounds.

"Look, Dean," Sam says. "We're pretty sure the demon was after me for a reason, and he might be dead, but who's to say something else won't come after me? I don't want to spend my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen and not be able to defend myself."

Dean looks at Sam's earnest expression and sighs. "Fine. But there are gonna be rules, okay?"

Sam smiles a little, nods. "Like?"

"You do whatever I say. And you take this seriously. It's not a game, it's not fun, and let me tell you, most of the time hunting sucks," Dean warns. "You see people die, and you have to do some pretty nasty stuff, and if you're only bruised by the end of the day you're _lucky_."

"I'm not expecting this to be a walk in the park."

"Good. Because it really isn't," Dean nods.

He prays he didn't just make the worst decision of his life.

+

Dean watches Sam put his duffel onto one of the two beds, looking around the motel room.

"It's not the Four Seasons," Dean says.

Sam turns around to face him, an amused smile on his face. "You think I've ever stepped foot into one of those?" he counters.

Dean shrugs and Sam chuckles.

"You should have seen the dorm I lived in my first semester. Makes this look like a five-star hotel, believe me."

"What, even at a school like Stanford?" Dean says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he puts his own duffel down onto the bed closer to the door. It means he's further away from the windows than Sam, but Dean can't keep Sam safe from all sides. He figures if anything, or anyone, comes in, the door will be their first choice and he's going to lay down extra thick lines of salts just to make sure.

"I got in because of good grades. Means shit when it comes to getting a room though. Those go to the people who can afford it," Sam says with a shrug. "Believe me."

"Couldn't have been that bad."

"Communal showers," Sam replies with a look of distaste on his face, nose wrinkled.

Dean can't hold back the laugh at that. "All right. I get it. You were traumatized by your horrible living conditions," he says. "At least you could take showers though. Just wait until we run out of money and we have to sleep in the car."

Sam sits down on his bed, pushing off his shoes with his feet. "How do you earn money anyway?" he asks. "You get paid by the people you help?"

Dean's good mood drops a little instantly and he sits down on his own bed opposite of Sam, not quite sure what to say. He could lie, he thinks, but if Sam is staying with him for the next few months, he can't keep that up forever.

"Some people offer, but we've never taken any of the money. I get by on credit card shams and hustling," he admits, then adds with a grin, "I'm pretty unbeatable at pool and card games. Not too bad at darts either."

Sam looks at him with surprise, silent for a moment, and Dean looks straight back, waiting for a reaction. He almost expects Sam to tell him to take him back to his nice little apartment in Palo Alto.

"I'm good at cards," he finally says, with a nod. "You probably gotta teach me some tricks at pool, though."

"Sam." Dean frowns and heaves a sigh. "You don't have to. I can take care of the money."

Sam shakes his head. "I said I wanted to do this, so I'm going to pull my weight."

Dean hesitates a moment, and Sam stares at him with a stubborn, determined expression that finally makes Dean give in. "Okay," he says, getting up. "But first things first then."

He unzips his duffel and gets out his gun. He holds it up to Sam, walking over to him, and sits down on Sam's bed.

"You ever used a gun at all?" he asks.

"Do shooting galleries count?"

Dean groans.

"Okay. You watch," he says. "And then we go over the steps until you got them down and then you can try it yourself."

Sam gives him a wry smile, and when he nods Dean knows he's only humoring him.

"I'm serious," Dean says. "This job is dangerous enough as it is. I'm not letting you handle a weapon on top of all the other crap if you don't know exactly what you're doing, got it?"

"Got it," Sam replies.

Dean gives him a pointed look, then holds up his gun and the clip. "Okay, you load the clip," he says, loading the gun. "Then you pull the flight. And then you pull the safety off."

"That's it?" Sam asks.

Dean glares at him. "Are you always this mouthy when someone tries to teach you something?" he asks, not letting Sam answer before he goes on. "There are rules. Always make sure the safety is on if you're not using the gun. God knows enough idiots have accidentally gotten someone shot because they don't know what the hell they're doing. Second rule, don't point the gun at anyone unless you mean it. If you accidentally pull the trigger, you better make sure you're pointing your gun down and not shooting anyone."

"Right."

"Now tell me the steps again."

Sam gives him a look, before walking through what Dean told him. Dean makes him repeat it twice more, just because, before he hands over his gun.

He watches Sam handle it, a little careful as he repeats Dean's steps, and nods in satisfaction when Sam is done.

"Good," he says. "We'll find an empty field or something tomorrow, and I'll show you how to actually use one of those. Until then, I'll show you how to clean it."

"Really?" Sam asks, like he thinks Dean is just kidding about the last part.

Dean glares, and Sam holds his hands up, grinning innocently. "Okay, okay. Bring it," he says.

It's going to be a long couple of months, Dean thinks. And not just because he's going to teach Sam how to hunt.

+

Sam is straddling Dean, looking down at him with a grin. Dean's hands are resting on Sam's thighs, feeling the warmth, the strong muscles underneath the thick layer of his jeans.

"You drive me crazy," Sam whispers, leaning over him.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, arching up to meet Sam's lips in a kiss. It's hot and dirty, tongues battling for control, and Dean can hear the soft, needy noises he's making, need pooling in his stomach.

He flips them over, and there are no more layers of clothes between them suddenly, just naked skin on naked skin. Sam feels hot against him, smooth, not a single scar marring his body, and he's moaning as Dean grinds down against him.

"Dean," Sam rasps.

Dean blinks his eyes open, a gasp on his lips. The room is quiet, still dark, and his heart is beating fast, his breathing heavy. He ignores his erection, hard and heavy between his legs. Instead, he bites down on his lips to keep any noise in, forcing himself to think about nothing as he breathes steadily in and out until he's calmed down. It's then that he can hear Sam's breathing, soft and even, from the other bed.

Dean lies awake until dawn breaks.

+

They go for a morning run, the lack of sleep making Dean feel restless and a little grumpy. It's drizzling slightly, but the water's warm on their skin and it's a welcome change from the hot summer heat.

Sam pulls on shoes without complaining, following Dean out of the motel room. Sam is lean, and Dean can tell he works out and keeps in shape, but he's on the skinny side for a hunter. Dean is pretty sure he's gonna pack on a few muscles in the next few months.

They run until even Dean's sides ache a little and both of them are panting.

"That was good," Dean says, patting Sam's shoulder. His shirt is soaked with sweat and rain, and Dean can feel the heat of his skin, can see Sam's chest perfectly outlined under the shirt clinging to his body.

He pulls his hand back.

"So I passed the test?" Sam asks, but he's grinning. His face is a little flushed, wet strands of hair plastered to his skull.

Dean looks away from his face and nods. "Sure."

"Shooting next?"

"Breakfast, then shooting," Dean suggests, distracting himself by looking through his duffel for a dry set of clothes. "Go take a shower."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sam says, and Dean listens to the snick of the bathroom door falling into the lock before turning around.

He sits down on his bed heavily. 

"He's your goddamn brother," he tells himself. He refuses to think about the way Sam looked in the wet clothes and waits for him to be done to take his own shower.

+

"Ow," Sam says, grimacing.

"Kick back's a bitch," Dean agrees. "You'll learn."

He steps closer to Sam, who lifts his gun again, pointing at the line of cans Dean put up. Dean pushes his arms a little bit higher, adjusts the position of his shoulder a little, then nudges Sam's foot with his own. Sam shifts with it and Dean nods.

"Okay, try again," he says.

Sam licks his lips, focusing, and pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the silence, and one of the cans falls with a clatter.

Sam turns to him with a wide grin. "That was good, right?" he asks, sounding excited.

It reminds Dean a little of himself, the first time John took him shooting, the excitement he'd felt the first time he'd hit the target. He grins. "Not too bad, yeah. Wanna try a few more?"

Sam nods, and gets back into position. Dean doesn't correct his stance this time, just lets Sam shoot and nods in satisfaction when another can falls.

By the end of the training, there are no cans standing and Sam is grinning widely, a spring in his step.

"I'm pretty good at this," he says.

Dean shrugs, but he's smiling and he knows Sam would probably read that as agreement. Sam isn't wrong either. He's gotten a hang of handling a gun pretty quickly. Dean wouldn't let him handle a gun any time outside of training yet, but he's sure they can move on to moving targets the next time Sam trains shooting.

Sam's good mood lasts through lunch at a crappy diner a few blocks from their motel and he claps his hands when they get back to their room.

"Okay, what's next?"

"You could read Dad's journal. He took pretty good account of all the things we encountered," Dean says. "Or I can show you some fight moves."

Sam rolls his shoulder. "Sure, I'm fine with that. I took a self-defense class once."

Dean nods. "That should help," he says, glad that that's something he doesn't have to teach Sam from scratch. If worse comes to worse, he at least wants Sam to know how to defend himself. Though Dean will do his best not to let that happen. Sam isn't in this for the long haul, and Dean isn't going to put him into any unnecessary danger. He can stick to smaller cases for a while if it keeps Sam safe.

+

Dean refuses to take on a case for the first two weeks. Instead he makes them train every day. Sam complains about it a couple of times, but Dean doesn't back down.

He grew up with this life, and he was a pro before John took him along on a hunt for the first time. He can't teach Sam years worth of training in just a few weeks, but he can make sure Sam is at least prepared to handle himself in a fight.

The first job he eventually does pick is a simple salt and burn. Angry spirit of a girl who died in a car accident the day before her wedding. Dean thinks he would be pissed too if he died right before the wedding night, because god knows that's the only reason to get married. That, and the honeymoon.

The spirit doesn't seem too dangerous, or just not strong enough to cause any real damage. She goes after every girl her former husband-to-be so much as looks at, it seems, but so far nobody's been seriously hurt. A few scratches and bruises, one broken arm, nothing more than small accidents. Stumbling on a sidewalk, small objects being hurled at the victims, things toppling down around them.

Sam seems a little hesitant about digging up a grave, and Dean can't really blame him.

Just wait until we actually have to open the casket, he thinks, and starts digging.

Things go smoothly until Dean pours the lighter fluids over the decayed corpse, Sam standing by with a disgusted look on his face and a hand over his nose and mouth.

Dean is about to flip open his lighter, shooting a grin at Sam, when he's hurled through the air. His back hits a tombstone and the air is knocked out of him, pain shooting down his spine. Goddamn bitch is apparently stronger than he thought.

"Dean!" Sam yells, and he's sprinting Dean's way.

"Body," Dean croaks out, waving at the open grave. "Burn the body, Sam."

Sam hesitates for a moment, looking torn between getting the job down and rushing to Dean's side, but he turns around, picks up Dean's forgotten lighter. Dean struggles to sit up, grunting at the sudden movement, and looks around for the spirit. Flinging Dean through the air most have done her in though, because Sam is able to drop the lighter into the grave without any disturbances, and then he's at Dean's side.

"You okay?" he asks, kneeling down, one hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Fine," Dean replies.

"Are you sure? Do you need a hospital or something?"

Dean snorts. "I need a drink and a bed," he says. "Believe me, I've had much worse."

Sam frowns, but doesn't protest. He gets back up and holds out his hand, hauling Dean up.

When they walk back to the Impala, Sam walks a little closer than necessary, hand hovering behind Dean's back as if he's scared Dean will collapse any moment.

"Want me to drive?" Sam asks.

Dean wants to say no, because he's never let anyone drive his car, and he's not hurt that badly. It'll probably bruise, but Dean's used to bruises littering his body. But Sam looks worried, a frown on his face and his lips pulled down a little, and Dean hands over the keys.

"One scratch, and you're dead."

Sam nods. "I'll drive carefully," he says earnestly.

Dean rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger seat.

Back at the motel, Sam makes him take some painkillers even though Dean tells him the pain is already fading. He watches Dean's every move as Dean pulls off his shoes and strips out of his clothes, leaving him in boxers and a t-shirt. Sam waits until Dean is in bed, under the covers, until he starts getting ready for bed himself.

Dean wants to be annoyed at how much Sam is fretting, but it actually feels nice. It's the first time since John's death that Dean feels like he has someone to watch his back again, someone who worries about him.

+

"Have you ever wondered about what it would have been like if dad hadn't given me away?" Sam asks.

They've been driving in comfortable silence for the last hour, one of Dean's many cassettes playing while Sam was skimming the newspapers they got at the last gas station, looking for anything suspicious.

He's looking at Dean now, though, a curious expression on his face.

"Sometimes," Dean admits after a short moment.

Sam nods. "We would have made a good team," he muses.

"You would have been a pain in my ass," Dean counters with a grin that tells Sam he doesn't mean it.

Sam laughs. "Probably, yeah," he says.

They're silent for a moment, then Sam shifts.

"Things would have been a lot different," he says, voice quiet.

Yeah, Dean thinks, I probably wouldn't fantasize about you.

"I guess. Who knows," he says instead.

+

"Dude, I _killed_ that thing," Sam says with a grin, looking excited.

"Yeah, Sam, you killed the giant, evil hodag that was killing poor, innocent puppies."

Sam's grin doesn't falter. "Shut up. I saved dogs all around the world," he declares.

Dean chuckles. "Okay, hero. How about we find a bar and have a few beers to celebrate your victory?"

"Sounds good," Sam says. "And who knows. That hodag might have gotten tired of dogs eventually and gone after humans. I stopped it before it could do any more harm."

"Yeah, sure," Dean nods, and then shoots Sam a grin. "You did good."

"Yeah?"

"Shot was spot on," Dean admits, then knocks their shoulders together. "Now stop fishing for compliments, cause you're not getting any more from me."

Sam shrugs. "That's okay. You know I'm awesome, that's enough. You don't have to say it out loud."

Dean gives him a disbelieving look, shaking his head as they reach the Impala.

Sam grins, babbling on about the case for the short drive to the nearest bar Dean can find. He seems stoked, high on the adrenaline of a hunt even if all they did was stop _pets_ from getting killed. Dean has to admit it's kind of endearing.

They find a dark, quiet corner at the bar, ordering beer and shots and a burger with fries for each.

"So, what's next?" Sam asks once the waitress has brought them their drinks.

"Whatever we find."

"Yeah," Sam nods. "But I was thinking maybe something bigger?"

"You wanna go after bigfoot? I gotta disappoint you, Sam, I'm pretty sure that one's just a hoax."

"You never know. I thought hodags were a hoax too," Sam argues, taking a swig from his beer. "But honestly, I think I'm ready for something a little bigger."

Dean shrugs. "I don't think you're quite ready to go after just anything."

"No, fine, I get that," Sam agrees. "But we've been hunting things that don't really do much harm, Dean. That first ghost? Worst that happened was a broken bone. And the one in Ohio? It was causing messy rooms, but no actual harm. People were just freaked. And god, this thing today was killing animals."

"You seemed pretty stoked about that just minutes ago."

"Well, yeah. But that's not the kind of things you're usually hunting."

"It ain't always big, scary demons."

"Don't bullshit me," Sam says, frowning. "You told me about your jobs before. You were hunting things that actually killed people."

"I've hunted all my life," Dean points out. "I have enough experience to go after those kinda things. Believe me, my first hunts weren't demons and werewolves either. Far from it."

Sam sighs. "But I've been doing a good job, right? We can step things up a little."

Dean twists his beer bottle between his hands, before taking a big swig. He puts it back down with a sigh. "Maybe--" he says. "Maybe I'm just not ready to have you face anything that kills people, Sam."

Sam looks at him, then nods slowly. "Okay," he says in a quiet voice, barely audible over the noise of the bar.

Dean looks away for a moment, uncomfortable, only looking back at Sam when Sam clears his throat. 

"So," he says, lifting his shot glass. "To killing that bastard of a hodag?"

Dean's lips twitch into a smile and he holds up his own glass. "To killing that bastard of a hodag," he echoes, throwing the shot back.

+

"I'm a little drunk," Sam says in a loud whisper, laughing softly. He's leaning into Dean, and Dean is having a hard time fumbling with the keys to their motel room. He's barely even tipsy, but it's hard to concentrate with Sam hanging off him, warm and heavy, and smelling like sweat and alcohol and cheap soap.

"I noticed," Dean replies. "Lightweight."

"Just not used to it," Sam mumbles back, hands suddenly on Dean's waist. He's probably just trying to steady himself, Dean thinks, but damn if it doesn't make his blood pump a little faster.

"Let's just get you inside and into bed," Dean mutters, finally getting the door open. He switches the light on as he steps inside.

"Get undressed and get into bed, Sam," he says, gesturing at Sam's bed.

He goes to the bathroom without waiting for Sam to react, but before he can close the door behind him, Sam slides in.

Dean gives him a look, halting in the middle of the small room. "Sam? Some privacy? I need to piss, man."

Sam shrugs. "'s okay. I don't mind watching," he says, voice a little slurred.

Dean tells himself he's not flushing, because goddamn it, he's a grown up and his brother being drunk off his ass and forgetting about personal boundaries is not getting to him. "Well, I do."

Sam looks at him. "Why?"

Dean groans. "Because it's kinda personal?"

Sam licks his lips. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"Actually, you've never seen me taking a piss, so it is something you haven't seen before. And I wanna keep it that way."

Sam cocks his head to the side, eyes running up and down Dean's body and Jesus, is Sam checking him out? "I don't."

"What?" Dean asks, confused.

"I don't wanna keep it that way," Sam mumbles and steps closer, right into Dean's personal space. Dean takes a couple of steps back, hitting the sink behind him, and Sam follows, crowding up against him.

"Sam," Dean says in warning, but Sam doesn't react.

"Want to see you," Sam says in a whisper. "All of you."

He ducks his head, pressing his lips to Dean's and fuck. Fuck.

Dean wants to push Sam away, but Sam is a lot stronger than he looks, the bastard, and even drunk he's like a damn stone wall and his lips are moving slowly against Dean's, tongue coming out to pry Dean's lips apart and it feels too damn good. Dean moans, letting Sam's tongue slide past his lips and fists his hands in Sam's shirt, arching up into the kiss.

They break apart, and Sam is grinning at him, face flushed and eyes glassy. He licks his lips, shining with their spit, like he wants to get more of the taste lingering there and fuck, Dean is getting hard, heat pooling in his stomach. This can't be happening.

"Sam."

"Hmm?" Sam makes a move to lean back and Dean raises his hands, pushing at Sam's chest.

"Go to bed," he says.

"But."

"Go to bed, Sam," Dean repeats, voice harsher.

Sam's face falls, and after a short hesitation, he nods and leaves the bathroom without looking back, swaying a little.

Dean stays where he is until his erection goes down and his heart stops beating out of his chest.

Sam's sprawled out on top of his covers, asleep, when Dean comes out.

+

Dean ignores what happened the next morning, pretending everything is fine.

Sam looks a little miserable, but Dean blames it on the amounts of alcohol he drank and apparently had a very low tolerance of. He tells himself Sam probably doesn't remember. He was drunk and got a little stupid, but it didn't mean anything. Dean will just move on, forget it ever happened.

"There's a guy in Bloomington who claims his house is haunted," Dean says when Sam emerges from the bathroom, dressed and hair damp from the shower. "Neighbors heard noises and a scream and called the cops. The wife was laying in the hallway, and her husband was at the top of the stairs. Cops think they fought and he pushed her, but he claims it was ghost. His wife is in a coma, so until she wakes up - _if_ she wakes up - he's screwed."

Sam sits down at the small table across from him, and Dean pushes over a coffee, a couple of painkillers, and a box with donuts. "And why do you think he's not lying?"

"Because if you push your wife down the stairs and the cops come, you tell them it was an accident, not a ghost," Dean replies, getting up.

Sam nods, swallowing down the pills and washing them down with coffee. Dean turns away, ignoring the way Sam's throat works, the way his hair curls around his ears, and the long fingers wrapped around the paper cup.

"I'll pack up," he say, clearing his throat. "You eat something and then we'll hit the road.

"Okay," Sam agrees, voice low. Disappointed.

He doesn't remember, Dean tells himself. He's just hungover. And even if Sam remembered, Dean doubts he wants to talk about what happened, about how he kissed Dean and how much it turned Dean on, how much he wanted it. If Sam remembers, it's probably only a matter of time before he comes up with some excuse as to why he has to leave even if his break isn't over.

+

They make it to Bloomington within a couple of days.

There's a tension between them, silence thick and oppressive in the car, and Dean does his best to shrug it off.

They dress up in suits and pay the husband, George Bell, a visit in jail. Sam brandishes his shiny new, fake ID, and lets Dean take over. It's the first time Sam has to pretend to be someone else, and Dean is glad Sam leaves the talking to him because he can tell how uncomfortable Sam is.

George Bell insists that he didn't push his wife, that he never would have hurt her, and that he saw something. _Someone_. An elderly guy, but he was flickering, translucent and he wasn't crazy, he knew what he'd seen.

Dean believes him, because the guy is obviously freaked out and seems genuinely worried about his wife.

"What next?" Sam asks when the step back outside into the sunlit street. He's tugging at his tie, grimacing.

"Research the house and the Bells. Ghosts are usually attached to either a place or a person, so let's see what we can dig up."

"And then we're digging up another grave?" Sam guesses.

"Got it in one," Dean says, grinning at Sam.

The smile Sam returns is a little brittle, a little forced, and Dean ignores that too, like he's been ignoring a lot these last few days.

+

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean hisses, looking around to see if the ghost is appearing anywhere else, but everything is quiet. Dean is pretty sure it's not gonna take the ghost long to recover from the round of salt he fired into him. Howard Harmond, former owner of the house, evicted when he couldn't pay the bank back when his business failed. His body was cremated after his death, but Dean's pretty sure whatever made him stay on is somewhere in the house, something the Bell's disturbed that made Harmond angry.

"When I say duck, you duck," Dean says, kneeling down next to Sam. "How bad is it?"

"Okay," Sam says, sounding pained. He struggles to sit up straighter.

Dean looks at Sam's arm and hisses. The shirt is torn, and there's a gash on Sam's arm, bleeding. "You're gonna need stitches."

Sam nods, then tenses. "Dean!"

Dean whirls around, lifting his shotgun and shooting the ghost just in time before it can get to them.

"We should get out of here."

"Shouldn't we take care of the ghost first?" Sam asks.

"Don't think you're up for that right now."

"Dean, it's not that bad," Sam argues. "Look, what could the ghost be hanging onto that's still in the house?"

"Tons of stuff."

Sam sighs. "Okay, you go look then. I'll stay here with a shotgun and distract Harmond."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dean says, shaking his head. "You're hurt. And you're not a trained hunter."

"I've been hunting with you for weeks."

"Nothing like this," Dean shoots back.

"I can take care of myself," Sam says with a stubborn look. "I'm not a kid, you know."

Dean wants to say that he does know. He knows it all too well that Sam is a grown up, and god knows Dean wishes he could forget just that.

"Go," Sam urges.

"I can't just leave you here."

"Yes, you can," Sam tells him. "Just help me up and then find whatever it is we need to kill that thing and burn it."

Dean sighs, hauling Sam up with him. "Okay, keep your back to the wall. Don't give him too much room to attack," Dean warns.

Sam nods. "Start with the attic. If the Bells found anything in the house when they moved in they probably stored it there."

Dean runs a hand over his face. "Don't get yourself killed," he says.

Sam grins, and it's the first real grin in a few days, and shoos him out of the room.

Dean jogs up the stairs, listening to Sam making noise in the kitchen to attract the ghost. 

"Come on, Harmond, you bastard. I'm here," Sam singsongs, and Dean wants to roll his eyes, but his stomach is knotting with nerves at the thought of Sam being on his own, dealing with a ghost.

The attic is stuffy and dusty, old furniture and boxes stacked against the walls. He ignores everything closest to the stairs, and moves further into the room. There's a crash from downstairs, then a shot.

"You better be okay, Sam, or I'll kick your ass," Dean mutters.

He hastily looks over things, pushing old furniture and boxes aside until he finds one labeled 'previous tenant' in a loopy, neat handwriting of what he suspect must have been Elizabeth Bell.

"Thank god for freakily organized people," Dean grunts, ripping open the box. There are a few books, papers, and knick knacks. Nothing immediately catches Dean's attention, so he just hefts the box up and carries it back downstairs.

"Sam?" he calls out when he hits the bottom stairs.

"I'm okay," Sam calls back from the kitchen, and there's another shot.

Dean hurries outside into the backyard, throwing the box onto the ground. He has a flask of lighter fluid tucked into his jacket, and he pours the whole contents over the open box before throwing a lit match into it.

The box goes up in flames and Dean only watches it for a moment before turning around and jogging back into the house.

Sam meets him in the hallway.

"Is it gone?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "Went up in flames."

"Good. Let's get out of here before the neighbors call the cops," Dean suggests.

He keeps a close eye on Sam as they leave, but Sam is walking steadily even if he's pressing his hand to the wound on his shoulder.

"Do you want to go to a hospital?" Dean asks as he turns the key in the ignition, the Impala roaring to life.

"You said it needed stitches."

Dean nods. "Yeah. But I can do it if you want to."

Sam looks skeptical. "That doesn't sound safe."

Dean snorts. "Safer than dropping by a hospital in every town you do a job. The less people see us and know our names, fake or real, the better."

Sam is silent for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face when Dean glances over. "Okay," he finally says. "You do it then. Just be careful."

"Done it more times than I can count," Dean replies easily, even if he's not feeling quite as confident as he pretends to be. It's one thing to stitch up himself, or John, but Sam is different. Sam isn't a hunter. And the thought of leaving a scar on Sam's skin makes Dean's stomach turn.

He doesn't say anything for the rest of the short drive to their motel, but keeps glancing at Sam. In the dim light of the Impala, he looks a little pale and his face is set in a grimace.

Dean speed up, and once they reach the motel he quickly ushers Sam into the room.

"Take your shirt off and sit on the bed," Dean tells him as he gets the medical kit and a bottle of whiskey from his duffel.

Sam is sitting on the bed, watching him. Dean puts the kit down and hands the bottle to Sam. 

"Drink. Helps with the pain," he says.

Sam takes the bottle hesitantly.

"Believe me," Dean says, giving him an encouraging smile. "I'll get a towel from the bathroom."

He hears the soft noise of Sam unscrewing the bottle as he hurries into the bathroom.

When he returns, Sam has the open bottle between his legs, and he's biting his lower lip, looking nervous.

"You ready?" Dean asks, kneeling down next to Sam.

Sam nods.

"Okay, I'll clean the wound first and then stitch you up," Dean tells him. "Don't worry, okay?"

Sam nods again. Dean cleans the wound first, wiping away the blood the best he can before picking up the bottle from between Sam's legs and pouring some over the gash.

Sam hisses.

"Sorry," Dean mumbles, handing the bottle to Sam, and gets the needle and floss from the kit. "Drink some more and I'll start with the stitches."

He catches Sam's eyes, a little glassy from the alcohol he had, squeezing Sam's arm once before he starts stitching. The first prick of the needle makes Sam flinch, but he keeps still after that and Dean has the wound stitched up quickly.

He pours some more of the whiskey over it, just to be sure, before bandaging it.

"Feels okay?" he asks Sam once he's done.

"Yeah," Sam says, taking a deep breath before bringing the bottle back to his lips to take one more swig. Dean takes the bottle away with a chuckle after that.

"Okay, you had a enough. Bedtime," he says.

He cleans up, putting the medical kit away and throwing the bloodied towel into the trash.

Sam is still sitting on the bed when he's done, all lights but the bedside lamp turned off, and it's basking everything into a soft light.

"Let's go to bed, get some rest," Dean suggests, stopping in front of Sam, and he wants to reach out and touch him so bad, reassure himself that Sam is fine. The adrenaline is leaving his body slowly, and Dean feels worn-out, stretched too thin. Sam got hurt. He let Sam get hurt on a hunt, something he swore himself wouldn't happen. "You'll feel better tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agrees. He lies down on his bed, still in jeans and boots, and Dean wants to turn away but Sam wraps his hand around his wrist before Dean can move. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam looks up at him, licking his lips. "Are we ever gonna talk about it?"

"About what?" Dean asks, pretending not to know.

"Us. What happened."

Dean looks down at Sam and Sam pulls Dean's hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss over his knuckles. Dean snatches his hand away as fast as he can.

"Nothing happened...just get some sleep," he says, and turns away.

He gets himself ready for bed, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his boxers and shirt. He stops at Sam's bed again on the way to his own.

For a moment, he watches Sam, fast asleep already. He reaches out, brushing a strand of dark hair out of Sam's face.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. For the gash on Sam's arm. For letting him come on the road with Dean. For the kiss. For the feelings Dean has for him.

He wants to be sorry for ever looking Sam up, too, but he can't. He can't feel sorry for having Sam in his life.

+

Dean considers just driving to California and dropping Sam off. Or maybe to Greenwich.

Before he can give either option more thought, they stumble upon a case.

Four people dead in small town in Ohio. All of them were last seen at a bar, disappeared from it without a trace, and their bodies were all found a few miles away, in an alley behind a shut down restaurant.

If Dean had given it any thought, he might have realized this was a bit too big for Sam. That they might be dealing with something Sam wasn't ready for. But he's too caught up in everything else, in _Sam_ , to think it through.

Instead they drop by the bar, talk to the two waiters there and a couple of the guests, but nobody seems to have seen anything. Nobody knows who the victims left with, if they even left with anyone.

"Let's pay the victims' families a visit tomorrow," Dean suggests, emptying his beer. "Nothing we can do tonight."

Sam nods, follows him outside.

The Impala is parked around the back, and they walk through the small, dark alley so they won't have to circle the whole block.

"Well, if it isn't Dean Winchester," a voice says from the darkness, and Dean halts. Sam walks right into him as a woman steps out of the shadows, smiling widely.

Dean draws his gun, holding it up, but she just laughs. 

"That can't hurt me, Dean," she says, and for a moment, her eyes turn black.

Sam makes a soft noise behind him and Dean wants to kick his own ass. Demon.

"There are other ways to hurt you," Dean hisses.

The demon laughs again, and then licks her lips. "Who's your handsome company?" she asks, cocking her head to the side and watching Sam so intensely it almost makes Dean shudder.

"Nobody," he hisses.

The demon narrows her eyes, tsking. "Dean. Sam Winchester is not nobody," she says, laughing loudly when Sam gasps.

Dean takes a step back, until his back is pressed against Sam's chest, shielding as much of him as he can. _Sam Winchester_. It's the first time anyone has called Sam that name, and it makes both fury and longing rush through Dean.

"What? Didn't think I'd recognize Sam? Please. I can tell, Dean -- we demons can always tell what's ours," the demon says. "And Sam's _special_. Don't you know that?"

Dean snorts. "Well, believe me, none of you are getting any closer to him than this," he says, pointing to the few feet between them and the demon. "Ever."

"Who's gonna stop me? You?" She grins again, then her eyes shift back to Sam. "I gotta say, Azazel chose well."

"Who?" Dean says before he can stop himself.

"Azazel. You know him, Dean," she says. "After all, it was you who killed him. Gotta give it to you. I didn't think you had it in you."

"So why do you care who I am then?" Sam asks from behind him. " _Azazel_ is dead. Whatever he wanted, Dean stopped him."

"Him, yes," she says with a nod. "But there are others. They'll come for you sooner or later."

"Well, tell them that I'll kill every single one of them before they get to Sam when you see them in hell," Dean snaps.

He shoots the demon. Once, twice, three times. It's not gonna kill her, but it'll hurt. The second the third shot rings through the air, he starts chanting.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas," Dean starts. The demon hisses, then hisses louder when Sam flings what Dean guesses is the holy water from the flask Dean makes him carry around with him at her.

He keeps chanting, watches her open her mouth with a scream as black vapor pours from her.

The body of the woman collapses onto the ground. Dean kneels down beside her, feels her pulse, then gets back up.

"Come on, we'll call an ambulance from the car and get out of here," he says, catching Sam's eyes.

Sam looks at the woman once more, looking frozen, but then nods and follows Dean.

+

"What do you think she meant? About me being special?" Sam asks into the darkness of the room.

Dean turns onto his side, facing Sam even if he can only make out a lump on the other bed in the darkness.

"I don't know. Everything she said sounded kinda cryptic to me," he says.

"Yeah." Sam sighs, loud and heavy. "So what do we do now?"

"Nothing," Dean replies.

"Nothing?" Sam moves in his bed, sheets rustling and the bedsprings creaking. "We can't just do nothing. We should try to find out what she was talking about, what the demons want with me."

"Sam," Dean says, and he feels stupid talking in the darkness, not seeing Sam. "I don't think even _dad_ knew what the demon wanted with you. If you want to find out about it, we'd have to go straight to the source. And the source are demons, and we're not getting involved with them."

"You get involved with them regularly."

"I kill them. I don't try to chat with them and make nice with them," Dean argues. "They're dangerous. They lie. They screw you over."

"So we'll just ignore this, stay in the dark until some demon does come after me?"

"Nothing will happen to you as long as I'm here, okay? I won't let any demon get to you," Dean says, voice rough. He feels a surge of fright at the thought of demons coming for Sam, feels more angry than he has in a long time.

"You're a hunter. Shouldn't you go after them? Shouldn't you want to find out what's going on and end it?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah. But this isn't about a demon going after anyone, this is about you. If we look into this, we'll just draw attention to you and I'm not putting you in danger," he says. "Hunting's a job. And family always has priority. Got it?"

Sam is quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he finally says. "Okay."

He's quiet after that, and Dean lies awake in the darkness, heart feeling heavy and stomach twisting painfully.

They can do this, he tells himself. They can keep Sam safe from whatever it is.

For the first time, Dean really wishes he hadn't found Sam. John had been right to give him away, to make sure no demon ever found him. And if one does now, it'll be on Dean.

+

"Pull over here," Sam says.

Dean looks at him, checking him over, but Sam looks calm, fine. He pulls over on the side of the road anyway, wheels kicking up dust.

"What's wrong?" he asks, turning off the ignition. It's absolutely silent without the hum of the engine and AC/DC blaring from the speakers. The road is empty, has been for miles.

"We need to talk," Sam says, looking at him and biting his lower lip. "About us."

"What about us?" Dean asks, trying to sound light, even as his stomach drops. Of course Sam wouldn't ignore what happened forever.

"We kissed," Sam says, voice hard. "Stop pretending it didn't happen. Because we both know it did. I kissed you."

"It didn't mean anything," Dean says, running a hand over his face and turning away from Sam.

"It did to me."

"Well, it didn't mean anything to _me_ then. We were drunk, that's all."

"You weren't drunk," Sam argues. "And you kissed me back."

"Because I was shocked. It was a reflex. It doesn't mean I want you."

Sam lets out a frustrated grunt, shifting hard enough to make the car shake a little. "Dean, you can't lie to me. I'm the freak with the visions, remember?"

Dean snaps his head around. "You had visions about _us_?"

Sam heaves a sigh, shrugs. "Not really in the way you think...Look, I mentioned Clarice, right? The psychic who helped me when my dreams started?" Sam looks at him and when Dean nods, he continues, "She thought if I could control my visions, I'd stop having dreams. It sounded pretty plausible, so she taught me some stuff. How to control what you see, when you see it. But the dreams didn't stop, not even when I had the control part down pretty well. I could trigger visions, but I stopped doing that when I realized it wasn't helping with the dreams. What's the point, right? I just wanted the dreams to stop, I didn't want to be able to make myself have even more visions on top of it."

"What does that have to do with me? Us?" Dean asks gruffly.

Sam chews on his lower lip, shrugging. "There's something I didn't tell you," he says. "Remember how I reacted when we first met?"

"Yeah," Dean snorts. "You were a dick. But hey, man, I told you I was your dead brother. Can't blame you."

"It wasn't just that. I wasn't too welcoming before you introduced yourself either," Sam reminds him. "Cause I'd seen you before."

Dean's eyes widen and he stares at Sam. "Seen me?"

"You were in the visions sometimes. Hunting, I guess. A couple of times I saw you get hurt," Sam says with a shrug. "I...I tried finding out who you were. I read what must have been millions of articles, anything I could find about the things I'd seen in the visions. But none of the victims ever fit you."

"Of course not. I leave the scene as quick as I can."

"Yeah, well, I know that now. So I wasn't sure if that made you a bad guy or not," Sam says. "So I tried getting a vision about you, one that I controlled."

"Sam," Dean says, a warning tone in his voice.

"I did it just once," Sam says with a shrug. "I saw us together."

Dean rubs his forehead. "That doesn't mean shit. That might just have been your overactive imagination."

"Believe me, it wasn't. It was real."

"What did you see? The kiss? Any kiss? Cause that might just be _you_ kissing _me_. Doesn't mean I want it."

Sam snorts. "No. I know what I saw, Dean. You want me, too."

Dean shakes his head, balling his hands into fists and not meeting Sam's eyes. "You're my brother," he says, and it sounds weak in his own ears.

"Don't you think I know that? I've had months to think about that, about what that meant for us. It doesn't change how I feel."

"It's wrong," Dean says. "It's so damn wrong. We can't."

"So is a lot of stuff you do," Sam counters. "What's the worst that could happen, huh?"

"We could go to hell?"

Sam chuckles, sudden and brief. "There's that," he admits. "I don't care about any of that though, Dean. I don't care if it's a _sin_ and if people would hate us if they found out, because it doesn't feel wrong to me."

"It does to me," Dean replies, giving Sam a sad smile.

"What if you'd never found the photo of us?" Sam asks. "If you'd never known you had a brother. And then one day we met somewhere. You'd be with me then."

"But it didn't happen that way."

"We can pretend," Sam says. "I get that you're having issues with this, Dean, but--I think it'd be worth it."

Dean takes slow, deep breaths, his mind reeling, and doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to say, because he's said everything. And it doesn't change the fact that he wants this, that he longs to touch Sam, and Dean doesn't think he's ever felt this _miserable_ , torn between what he wants and what he knows he should be doing.

"Dean," Sam says in a soft voice.

Dean looks up and the moment their eyes meet, Dean knows he lost. He doesn't stop Sam when Sam leans in, hesitating before catching Dean's lips in a kiss. It's just a soft press of lips, Sam's palm cupping his cheek, and Dean lets himself relax into it, kissing Sam back just as softly.

They break apart and Sam rests his forehead against Dean's, breath fanning over Dean's face in hot puffs.

"Sammy," Dean says.

"Don't pull away," Sam pleads. "Please don't push me away again, Dean."

Dean licks his lips. He wants to, if he's honest, he wants to pull back, tell Sam this was a mistake, but more than that he wants Sam. He wants them.

He slides his hand into Sam's hair and pulls him back in, bringing their lips back together in a hard, demanding kiss.

Sam seems to get what Dean is trying to say, moaning into Dean's mouth and kissing him back eagerly.

+

They run out of working credit cards in the middle of Nebraska and have to sleep in the Impala.

"What do we do if a demon finds me?" Sam asks, balling the paper of the sandwiches they got at the last gas station together, and throwing it out of the open window. They're parked behind rows of trees, the road far enough away that they can't be seen.

Dean brushes the last crumbs from his hands, then grins and Sam and leans in, capturing his lips in a kiss. "I kill it," he says.

"Just like that?"

Dean shrugs. "I'm a damn good hunter," he says easily. He means it, even if the question scares him more than he lets on. Anything that comes after Sam has to get through Dean first, and getting through Dean isn't easy.

"You can't always be there," Sam says.

"Sure I can," Dean says, frowning at Sam. "I know classes start in a few weeks, but I can stick close by."

Sam looks at him with surprise, then laughs. "Classes?"

"Yeah."

"You think I'm going back?"

Dean sees the disbelief written all across Sam's face, like the idea of him going back to school is absurd, and Dean's not quite sure what to do with that, how to react. "Of course you are," he says.

"I'm not."

"Sam."

"You think I'm going back to law school? After everything?" Sam shakes his head. "I've broken more laws in the last few months than I can count."

"They don't have to know that."

"But I know. And I don't regret it. I just...I don't want to become a lawyer. I'm not sure I ever wanted to be, not anymore. I'm not saying laws are crap or that I don't believe in them anymore, but I don't think that life is for me," Sam says with a shrug.

"You couldn't have thought about that before you went to law school?" Dean groans.

Sam grins. "Didn't know you then just yet."

"You can study something else, or do whatever else you wanna do," Dean suggests. "I mean, five years of college gotta qualify you for something right? You can't just throw all that away."

"So you want me to live a normal life? Knowing what's out there?" Sam asks. "And what about you? You visit me between hunts and then we have a few days together before you leave again?"

Dean shrugs.

"Dean," Sam says. "This, you and hunting – that's my life now."

"It doesn't have to be."

Sam smiles, grabbing Dean's hand and twining their fingers together. Like they're in fucking elementary school. Dean doesn't pull away though.

"It is. And I don't want anything else," he says.

Dean snorts. "I can't believe you. Anyone else, if they could get out, live a better life, they would."

"The life you think I should lead? It really doesn't sound better," Sam says. "What we already have actually sounds pretty damn good though."

Dean's lips twitch into a smile. "You're insane," he says. "And you wasted a lot of money and time in the last years, just to decide you wanted to be hunter."

Sam kisses him. "I didn't know being a hunter was ever an option."

"Yeah, well, it's a sucky option," Dean tries one last time. Sam just kisses him again, shutting him up.

Dean lifts his hand, twisting his fingers in Sam's too long hair, tugging at the strands and he pushes his tongue past Sam's lips, kisses him hard and deep.

The backseat of the Impala isn't exactly the best place for this. They're both too tall, and they keep muttering soft curses as they struggle out of their clothes, elbows and knees bumping into things, limbs pressing uncomfortably into body parts.

Finally though, Dean is kneeling between Sam's splayed legs, hands running over miles and miles of exposed, warm skin. Sam has a bruise on his ribcage from their last hunt, and Dean kisses it gently. He presses his fingers against the small scar on Sam's arm, the one from the gash that Dean sewed shut. He still hopes it'll fade with time, but Dean knows that there'll be more. There are always more, and this is the life Sam chose now, and Dean can't feel guilty about it. He'll fix Sam up when he gets hurt, and sometimes it'll heal and sometimes it'll leave a scar. Dean will get more scars, too, adding to those that are already marring his skin. But they'll be okay, he thinks. For the first time in a long time, he's sure they'll be okay.

Dean rubs his thumb along Sam's throat, feels the pulse under his finger, and kisses Sam again, wet and lazy.

"Dean," Sam moans, wrapping his hands around Dean's waist and pulling him closer, arching against him. He's hard, precome smearing over Dean's stomach as they move.

"I got you, Sammy," Dean says with a smile, kissing Sam once, twice more before pulling away. He finds the lube on the floor behind the driver seat where he flung it, and fumbles a condom out from the back pocket of his jeans.

Sam smiles at him, cheeks flushed, spread out before Dean without any sign of bashfulness. He's beautiful. Body more muscled now than it was when they met, legs going on for miles, and that stupid, floppy hair that Dean itches to touch all the damn time. He's still the guy Dean saw coming out of the building in Palo Alto, the one that made want curl in his stomach the second he saw him, and he's so much more, too. He's _everything_ , all Dean has now.

Dean fingers Sam open slowly, pushing two slick fingers into him and fucking them in and out of Sam, feeling the muscles relax around him. He adds a third then and Sam is panting by the time Dean deems him ready, stomach moving with the short breaths as he heaves in and out. His eyes are dark and fixed on Dean, urging him on.

Dean rolls the condom down his dick and slicks himself with lube. Sam lifts his legs around Dean's waist, fingers digging into the upholstery as Dean pushes into him.

"Dean," Sam breathes, voice shaky. He's hot and tight and better than anything Dean has ever felt, and Dean pulls back out and drives back in with more force.

His fingers grip Sam's thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, and he fucks into Sam with deep, sure thrusts. He listens to the soft moans he draws from Sam, the startled gasps when he hits Sam's prostate, the sound of skin slapping against skin as Dean slams into Sam.

Sam comes saying Dean's name. His come splatters onto Dean's stomach and his muscles contract around him, making Dean groan. He fucks Sam through, rocks into his body again and again and watches the way Sam squirms and shudders until it gets too much, too good.

"Sam. _Fuck_ , Sammy," he groans, hips stuttering as he comes.

Sweat trickling down the planes of his body slowly, the Impala suddenly deathless quiet except for their heavy breathing, and Dean's whole body is shaking, muscles quivering. He collapses forward into Sam, sated and boneless, burying his face in Sam's neck.

Sam lets out a short chuckle, mumbling something into Dean's hair that Dean can't make out. But he sounds content, breathless.

He presses a kiss to his throat, makes a noise that could mean anything or nothing.

He can feel the soft breeze coming in from the open window, ruffling the soft hairs at his nape and cooling his heated skin.

"I'm definitely never leaving now," Sam says, voice teasing and a little rough, but Dean can tell he means it. He smiles softly, nods into Sam's neck.

"Okay."

Sam laughs, shifts them around. Dean is pressed into the leather of the seats, face still tucked against Sam's shoulder, Sam pressing into his side, their legs twined and hanging off the seats.

Sam runs a hand down his side, warm and strong, and halts just above his hip. Dean feels tired, ready to just close his eyes and falls asleep, but he doesn't protest when Sam starts touching him. His fingers tickle over Dean's stomach, and Sam's sticky come is still smeared all over it. Sam moves his fingers through the mess, back and forth in small circles. It takes a moment for Dean to realize what he's doing, and then he blinks down at his stomach, watches the way Sam's fingers spread his come, rubbing it into Dean's skin.

"You don't need to mark me with your come, dumbass," he mumbles. 

_I'm already yours_ , he thinks but doesn't dare say it. He's sure Sam already knows anyway.

Sam laughs. "Nah," he says, kissing the bridge of Dean's nose. "But I can."

He sounds happy, relaxed, and it makes warmth spread through Dean. Later he'll deny that they cuddled in the back of the Impala, say that he was just too fucked out to stop Sam. For now, he'll just lie here and let Sam do whatever he wants. He doesn't care. Because for the first time since John died, since Dean's world crumbled into pieces around him, he feels whole.


End file.
